Fog
by DeviantAccumulation
Summary: post-Reichenbach. John is hallucinating Sherlock. Series of drabbles.
1. Encounter

Me dealing with post-Reichenbach feelings.

With a series of drabbles.

Warnings: Angst, Sadness, eventually incorrectness, due to me being no native speaker.

…...

John had just emerged the supermarket when he saw Sherlock.

The Consulting detective was standing on the oppositePavement, those calculating grey eyes staring directly at John. For one moment, it seemed as if the world had completely stopped and John could nothing do but returning the gaze of those eyes.

Then a by-passer brushed his shoulder and he suddenly snapped back into reality, his body coming to life again and he was hurrying, running, ignoring furious drivers and the sound of klaxons behind him, dodging the driving cars, just crossing the street in the fastest way possible, his eyes never leaving Sherlocks calm face.

He reached the pavement and his sudden sprint came to halt, just a few steps away from Sherlock.

One, two hesitantly steps forward he was face-to-face with him, his eyes drinking everything in, the slightly pale tan, high cheekbones, black, curled hair, the blue scarf and the dark coat.

„Sherlock?", he whispered. The detective did not respond, just merely continued to look at John.

His hand was trembling as he reached out. His fingers merely touched Sherlocks cheek and he did feel...

nothing.

With wide eyes he saw how the fingers passed into the skin as if it was air. The figure wavered slightly like it was under water, the outlines crippling and starting to dissolve.

„No", John breathed. „No, don't... don't..."

Sherlock smiled a sad smile, became transparent and then disappeared, leaving the doctor behind.


	2. Doorstep

He did not know how, but he had managed to reach Bakerstreet without just breaking down on the street.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, he pushed the door open. The tiny klick as it fell closed again seemed to echo much too loud in the empty staircase. Carefully dodging the steps of which he knew would creak and without a doubt alarm Ms. Hudson to his presence, he climbed up the stairs.

He crumbled the very moment the door to the flat closed behind him. His legs just gave away under him and he slid to the floor against the wooden door, the bag with the shopping falling out of his numb fingers, scattering its contents over the carpet.

Dry sobs were clinging in his throat, making it impossible to breathe, to speak and to do anything if he did not want to start screaming because of the pain that was searing through his body, shaking him to his very core and all he could do was wrapping his arms around himself and choke down the whimpers that wanted to break free.


	3. Case

Sherlock stood over the corpse, black curls falling into his face as he bend slightly over it, closer examining the multiple stabwounds in his chest. The blood had already dried, clunging to the trench coat were it had soaked through.

However, that had not killed the man who was lying in front of them. Fast enough John had found the puncture in the crook of his left elbow. He was fairly sure, that poison had been injected there, given the near miss of the arterie running there and how the hole was slightly bigger than it should be. The victim must have struggled against the attacker. The infeed angle gave them away, that the the murderer must have been slightly greater than the victim.

That was as much as John could get out of the corpse and he wished, he could have helped Lestrade more – though the DI had said vehemently, that he had already given them very much. The analysis of the blood would reveal what kind of poison had been used and that was a huge hint, given that they probably would have overlooked the tiny puncture.

John had objected, that they had a competent team of forensics out there.

Lestrade had answered, that he would punch him if he continued to excoriate himself.

So now they were just waiting for the corpse to be brought away, Lestrade already making phonecalls to arrange everything necessary to analyze to poison.

Leaving John alone with the one and only Consulting Detective.

Sherlock was still standing next to the corpse, not moving in any bit, his facial contures hidden by a curtain of dark hair.

John had just noticed him as he finished explaining his observations to Lestrade. And since then, he had stood there as if he was made of stone, not able to tear his gaze away from Sherlock.

The sudden wave of ridiculous hope tried desperately to overcome the realistic doctor part of him, which told him, that Sherlock was dead and that hallucinating him was a very bad sign regarding his mental state.

But he did not want the moment to end. He just wanted to stand here for all eternity with the illusion, that Sherlock Holmes was still alive.

He did not know why, but suddenly the detective turned around to him, a fine smile tugging at corner of his lips. Approaching John, he held his hand out, palm turned upwards, a silent offer.

John was aware, that hallucinating dead people was bad enough. What would make things worse was to acknowledge them.

The impact of the realization, the logically thinking part of his brain had long ago made, that the whole figure was not real, was not any less painful as the first time. In a kind of way it hurt even more, to realize that he would always continue to hope despite the facts and would have his hope crushed every time.

He did not cry, as his fingers slid through the so solid appearing skin. He also did not cry, as the image again began to waver, as if it was seen underwater and disappeared. He just stood there, watching the one thing his life was worth living for fade away and knew, that no amount of tears and cries could cover the desperation and grief that were ripping his heart to pieces.


	4. Dreams

John woke up screaming. Slowly, the pictures of blood, the war, the rooftop of St. Barts and the dead eyes of Sherlock faded and made room for the dark ceiling above his bed. He panted, feeling the adrenaline curse through his veins and the cold sweat that had collected over his body.

His throat felt painfully raw and so he sat up and reached for the bottle with water on his nightstand.

He nearly dropped it as he saw the still figure of Sherlock sitting on the end of his bed.

Exhausted he let himself fall back into the soft mattress and closed his eyes. Now was really not the time where he could deal with his hallucinations.

"Go away", he murmured tired. He slowly opened his eyes, half hoping, half dreading that the Sherlock-image would have gone away. It was still sitting there, looking at him, not moving. Just then John realized, that the sheets were not compressed were he sat so that it looked, as if he was floating over the surface.

"Go away", he repeated. The fake Sherlock did not even bat an eyelash.

John groaned and buried his face in his pillow.

He rolled around so that he was laying on his right side and did not have to look at the image anymore. It was weird. On the one hand, the fact that he had hallucinations should frighten him, make him anxious and schedule a meeting with a psychiatrist – something Mycroft had been insisting on since the three months Sherlock was dead.

On the other hand, he did not really wanted it to go away. It was disturbing, yes. But it put him to ease. The mere sight of Sherlock, sitting on his bed and watching over him made the post-nightmare thoughts of fear and desperation go away. He cast a quick side glance on the figure, quickly returning to stare at the wall.

John would later say, that it had been the exhaustion – mentally and physically – which had made him drift to sleep so fast. But with the deep inner calmness at the thought, that Sherlock was watching over him, the fear of nightmares and worries he had just washed away.


	5. Graveyard

It was very awkward, to look at the grave of the same dead man, that was currently standing beside him. John cast a quick side glance to his right. Sherlock wore the same dark coat he had also on when he jumped from the rooftop, hands buried in its pockets and the pale gray eyes fixed to some point on the horizon. He looked so real, it nearly physically hurt.

He had hoped that maybe visiting his grave would finally tell his mind to give in and acknowledge to itself that Sherlock Holmes was dead (he still winced at those thoughts). But now he looked on the polished stone and the hallucination just would not do him the favor of fading away. Though he was not sure if it would be considered as a 'favor'. More the final breakdown of his world.

He was clinging to the past, he knew so much. Every psychiatrist he would go to would say him the same thing: Let go. Let HIM go.

But he did not want to go, to let the best part of his life end, the part were he had been finally completely happy and felt alive.

Briefly he wondered, if he could convince himself of the death of his best friend and the senselessness of his hallucinations if he would dig the casket up and open it.

The worst thing was that he just looked like he was still alive.

There were only few indicators as to why John knew that he was imaging things.

For one thing, neither hair nor clothes were ruffled by the sharp autumn wind, that always found his way under Johns parka and let him shiver in cold. Next was that his foots did not leave prints in the soft earth from the grave yard ways. And at last, the grass on the ground just went right through his slightly transparent shoes.

John sighed. The Sherlock-image was now following through three days straight. Had been a new record. The times before he used to stay just at a fixed point – like the edge of Johns bed or next to the table in his office (which had been very disturbing. After all, what good doctor was mentally ill himself?).

However, now Sherlock followed him – abnormal quiet and without the snarky comments or surprising deductions for which John had admiredhim so much_._

"Boring."

John whirled aroundand stared at Sherlock, who looked back at him as if he was saying that a talking hallucination was the most normal thing of the world.

Alright, cut the 'quiet' thing.


	6. Teacup

The water boiled and slopped against the inner side of the kettle. John took itand poured the water in the tea pot to the herbs. While he waited for the tea to brew, he tidied up the kitchen from the leftovers of his breakfast and looked at the clock above the cupboards. It was already past 7 AM, he soon needed to leave for work.

The tea was ready and he poured in in two cups, one in each hand as he headed to the living room.

Sherlock was lying on the couch, the long legs protruding overthe edge of it, fingertips steepled against each otherin his typical thinking pose.

"I've made you tea", John said, feeling entirely ridiculous.

Pale gray eyes flickered to him and abruptly, the hallucination swiftly raised from the couch and approached him.

Although he knew, it was only his very own mind playing with him, he could not help but observe the movements, how his hair fell as he stood up and the folds in the dressing gown where it had been crumpled_. _

His hand was still, as he handed the cup over to the hallucination, which was probably a bad sign. After all, the tremors had returned shortly enough after Sherlocks death, together with the limp, which was growing stronger as if to make sure to reach its previous degree as fast as possibly, and of course the nightmares, though they were not any more about blood-red sand and heat and gunfire, but about rooftops, blood on the pavement and dead gray eyes.

So given the state of his normally trembling hand and its now perfect stillness, danger was evident. John knew exactly what was the source of it.

He calmly observed how Sherlock took the cup from his hand, the doctor making instinctively sure that their fingers did not touch, how he raised it to his lips and took a few sips, how the steam curled before his face as he looked into the dark liquid.

And he knew, he could not fight this one.

As he returned from the practice to Baker Street, a shattered tea cup lay on the floor, the remnants of the tea already seeped and dried into the carpet.


	7. Therapists

Sherlock sat in his chair, as John stepped into their flat. Not that much of a surprise. More of a surprise was the soft 'Hello', with which he greeted him.

"Hello", John croaked back, then mentally shook his head at his own stupidity. Those hallucinations should not be able to unnerve him any longer like that, even with their seldom use of speech in any form.

"How was your day?", the illusion asked. John raised one eyebrow. A full sentence even. He should probably be concerned over the fact, that the images of his mind were becoming more and more realitically.

"Good", he said aloud. "Good." The last one was more a whisper.

Swiftly he closed the door behind himself and put his bag away. More to distract himself than because he was thirsty he poured himself a glass of water. As he stepped back into the living room, Sherlock was still there. He let himself fall into the other armchair, feeling exhausted.

"From your stance and all the other indicators I'm not willing to list here, I would dare to object." Sherlock had steepled his fingers in front of his face like he always did – used to do, John reminded himself.

For a moment, the doctor considered to remain silent. It was, what the medicine inside him told him to do. On the other hand, he did not really had someone to talk to for a while. Mrs. Hudson would either cry everytime he brought Sherlock up or just look at him pitifully.

Lestrade had been building a wall around himself for the half year Sherlock was dead. John guessed, it was probably his way of dealing with grief. To bottle up everything inside of him and stuff it away in some dark corner of his mind so it would not affect him.

He wished, he would be able to do so too. To be able to push memories and emotions aside and hope to continue somehow with his life.

The hallucinations were the best proof that he did not seem to have that ability.

"I went to the psychiatrist", he finally said after a long silence. "Mycroft coaxed me into doing so. Well, not coaxing, more blackmailing I guess."

He ran his hand through his hair. "She's just as crappy as the one I've got before. The previous sessions she just asked me questions I did not want to answer at all. Pushed myself to say some things, but, well, did not really help the whole thing. This time I was silent the whole hour."

Suddenly, he just could not keep it up any longer. Collapsing into the chair, he buried his head in his hands.

"Why did you have to kill yourself just right there in front of me? Hell, seconds before you were talking to me and then you jumped! Do you even know how many times I see this scene in my nightmares?"

One heavy breath.

"I know, it was not suicide. Suicide does not suit you. My therapist says things like You could not have changed his decision or You did nothing wrong to me the whole time. I've once tried to hint, that maybe it had not been suicide. She wrote 'denial' in that pad of hers.

Hell, it most likely really did not mattered, what I said. It mattered, that I just ran off to Mrs. Hudson and left you behind, that is it.

You're a bloody idiot, you know that? You did it on purpose. Trying to get me away, so you would be alone when you met Moriarty. Trying to protect me, huh? I would have died for you, if necessary. You knew that. Of course you did. As crappy as you always were with our people, that much you knew. Without me saying it.

I've never said that you should turn the tables around."

His hands were damp as he looked up. Sherlock was gone. Needless to say.

Still, John felt better than he had in months.


	8. Hysteria

John sneezed and wrapped the two blankets tighter around him. In the end, he had managed to catch the flu, which was currently cursing through London. His patients were all a snivelling mess and now John's body seemed to be very eager to copy them.

So despite the rather mild October temperatures, the lit fireplace and two thick blankets he was freezing. Everywhere in the dark room lay tissues scattered and his head was throbbing with the pain of a headache.

He had caught himself a full-blown cold.

"You look awful", a voice from his right side remarked.

"I know, thank you very much", John snapped back, the snappish tone losing its effect due to his stuffed nose and the resulting nasal voice.

"I'll go and fetch you some blankets", the voice replied, not at the least intrigued by John's snippy retort. A chair creaked and the raps of bare feet soles on wood could be heard, followed by the sound of an opening door.

John shivered as a wave of cold air flooded into the room. Grumbling, he cuddled himself deeper into the blankets.

Sherlock returned with two blankets and draped them carefully around John. Slowly, the coldness faded from his limps and the trembling ceased. "Thank you", he croaked, his wound throat protesting against the use of his voice. The hallucination eyed him carefully for a moment, then responded: "You're welcome, John."

John frowned. Something about the sentence was not right. He observed the facial expression for a few seconds, trying to find out what was different. The mimics of the fake Sherlock did not give anything away. Not even death had changed something about that, though John prided himself to be one of the few people who were able to see something more than the mask of cold indifference Sherlock usually wore.

The few moments passed and he realized that it had not been Sherlock's demeanour which had put him so off, but the words.

"You… called me by my first name", he whispered, as realization hit him with the force of a medium heavy truck at full speed.

Sherlock inclined his head slightly.

John started to giggle. At first it was weak and faint, but soon developed into a fit of breathless laughter.

Very hysterical sounding breathless laughter.

The hallucination seemed to be a bit confused.

"You know, it's just-", the doctor tried o say but could not through the laughter which bubbled up his throat, at much as he tried to suppress it.

Tears were running down his cheeks and he did not know if the cause was the hysteria or the grief.

Slowly, the laughter ceased, but the tears kept running.

"It's just", he tried again, panting, "that I am going insane – you know, imaging my dead best friend bringing me blankets. And I just could not care any less."

He buried his aching head in his hands. "One day, this is going to cost me my life. Or worse, someone else's life." He chuckled. "I really am a selfish person."

He looked up to find Sherlock watching him intensely.

"You're exhausted", he finally said. "You need some sleep."

A weak smile formed on John's lips. "Funny, hearing that from you of all people", he murmured and drifted into the welcoming blackness.

When he woke up, he felt considerably better. The headache had decreased and it was comfortable warm under the blankets. For a moment, he just enjoyed the warmth, and then pushed the blankets aside to get his body something to eat.

Just that instead of two, four blankets scattered across the linen bed sheets.

John froze.

'_Impossible_', he thought.

He felt, how his the rate of his heart beat sped up dangerously fast, the shortening of his breath and the adrenaline being pumped in his veins and knew, that he was just short before having a panic attack.

'Calm down', he told himself. 'Calm down.'

Using every ounce of his remaining self-control, he slowed his breathing and forced his body to go back into the normal modus.

He did his best to stop the thoughts in his head, which were wandering in every possible direction, suppressed the desperate blossom of hope that had found a place in his mind and just let his body work like he had learned in the army training.

He safely made it to Ms. Hudson's door and knocked with a trembling hand.

The landlady opened the door, her friendly expression changing to one of shock as she saw him. "Doctor Watson, you really look awful."

For the second time this day he was thankful for his training, allowing him to hide the wince that flashed through his body as he heard the sentence again.

"I know", he replied, his voice hoarse.

Ms. Hudson looked at him worried. "I'm going to make you some tea", she said decisively, turning her back on him and tripling to the kitchen door which was just near the entrance.

John was thankful for this turn of events. Not because of the tea, for which he could not care any less at the moment, but because Ms. Hudson would not see his face when she was in the kitchen.

"What is it, that you wanted, John?", Ms Hudson called over the noise of the clattering tea kettle.

"Tonight", the doctor said, "did you hear something? Like someone coming into the flat?"

"No, why do you ask?"

John cursed silently. Of course she had not heard anything. Given the late time and the quietness of the movement of any intruder, it was highly unlikely to even begin with.

"I just thought, I've heard something", he lied.

"Ah, that must have been me then", Ms. Hudson said. "I was so free and looked after you, could not leave a sick man alone. Don't worry, I did not do anything special, just dropped some blankets on you, since you were shivering so much."

_Foolish._

"Must have been that than", John managed to bring out.

_Foolish._

"I'm going to leave you then. Have to catch some sleep."

_Foolish._

He did not wait for her answer but climbed the stairs up as fast as he could without making a sound.

_Foolish._

The door locked with a faint clicking noise.

_Foolish._

He collapsed before he could make another step.

_Foolish._


	9. Grey

It was snowing. The white flocks danced in the air, lead by the wind in unpredictable paths. The same wind was ruffling his military short hair and let the cold seep through his clothes. Around him, the snow was starting to form layers on the ground, covering the grey with white. Its brightness had faded long ago with the last sunrays, the sky now dark with snow clouds, no moon or star light breaking through them.

John looked up. Night had already fallen. He had not noticed that he had been standing here for such a long time period, but he did not really care.

Ms. Hudson would not notice his disappearance till the next morning so it did not matter.

He was aware that he was freezing, the tips of his bare fingers already becoming blue. Hypothermia, though not serious enough to inflict real damage. Yet.

"You know", he said out of the blue, "They are wrong when they are saying that it is the depression."

Luckily, nobody was there to point out that he was talking to himself. At least, it would look like that to any outstanding person, who could not see Sherlock, standing just a few steps behind John, skin pale and snowflakes in the black curled hair.

"It's not depression", John repeated with a flat voice, "Well, at least not entirely. It's dullness. It's boringness. It's the fact that just nothing is happening anymore. It was like that when I returned from Afghanistan. And now it is back, just a hundred times worse. Like when you've lived all your life in the dark and suddenly someone opens a window and the light floods your life. And then the window is shut again and you're left in the darkness, with the memory of the light burned into your mind and the darkness just becomes unbearable.

It's the same with my life. Though I'm not exactly living in the dark." He chuckles bitterly. "More living in grey. Previously with colours, but now everything's grey again. Boring, lifeless grey."

He turned around to look at Sherlock. The illusion did not do anything, it just looked back with those intriguing eyes. John sighed.

"And then, there you are. The window to 'back then'. Bringing some of the colours back, sometimes at least. But then they are watery. Faint. Not real, just like you.

I probably should find something to return the colours. My therapist says that I should stop living in the past. Find something new, yes.

Really, but who am I trying to kid? What could possibly replace someone like YOU? And even if… even if I should manage… I mean, the world is great and wide. There surely is some crazy genius somewhere which would resemble you. With seven billion people on the world, counting. No consulting detective then, of course, since you were the… the only one." He hated himself for letting his voice break at the last words and turned away in shame, hiding his face by showing his back to the illusion. Although it was only that. An illusion.

He looked down.

"About twenty-five metres. Together with an acceleration of free fall of 9, 81 meter per square second that makes a speed of around 22 meter per second. And with a weight of 70 kilo an impact force of 17 kilo Newton. Deadly enough, like you've proven already."

Under his toe caps, which are just slightly towering over the edge, a few cars passed by on the street. No more patients were coming out or in of the hospital door at this time. Not much audience for a fall.

"Would be hopefully enough to kill me too", John whispered.

Suddenly, strong arms encircled him, startling him and nearly causing him to fall of St. Bart's rooftop.

"Don't", the deep voice whispered in his ear. "Don't."

The tears were warm against his icy skin as they ran down his cheeks.

"It's alright, John", the illusion said, the feeling of its grip slowly fading.

When he turned around, Sherlock was already gone.

"No, it's not", John said, though he knew that there was no one there to here him.

And backed of the edge to the solid cement ground.


	10. Return

"You certainly look terrible."

"Why, you too."

"Have you been eating enough?"

„Have you ever considered doing a diet? Would be necessary, believe me."

"Or sleeping, for that matter?"

"With your face etched into my memory, there's not going to be much sleep for the next weeks."

"John, care to answer?"

"Obviously not, you waste of-"

"Yes, indeed Harry", John answered, interrupting the fake-Sherlock who was currently throwing a very exclusive mix of insults at his sister. "You're just to fast in asking questions for me to answer." 'And on the currently empty chair to your right is someone sitting whose answering more than enough', he added in thought.

Harry huffed annoyed and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Contrary to what the illusion had said, she did look rather good.

She had gotten herself a slight tan over the summer which suited her well. Having regained the weight she had been missing when John saw her the last time her cheeks were not hollow anymore and had a slight pink tone due to the fresh air.

They were currently sitting in a café in Basingstoke, where Harry lived at the moment. It was a little café, nice and cosy. The siblings were sitting outside in the warm sunlight, which strength was already fading as the cold seasons drew nearer. But for now it was enough to let the people forget their jackets at home and keep the last twittering, migrating birds here, trees lightened up in warm colours as if everybody was eager to uphold the cliché of the late summer afternoon. Everything fitted into that image, everything aside from John.

Where his sister had regained her healthiness, John was the opposite.

His skin was pale and there were bags under his eyes from his lack of sleep. His face seemed haggard and the hair which had previously kept into a neat cut had outgrown and matted. The only thing that was missing to make him into a copy of his sister at her worst times was the tell-tale reek of alcohol.

"John", Clara started careful. The pity in her eyes told him already, what she was about to say. Damn thing that he was still too polite to tell her to shut up.

"You've got to move on. It's been over one and a half year and he-" "Shut up", he and the illusion said synchronously. The past time had seemed to take its toll on his patience and politeness.

Shut up.

I know.

Move on.

My therapist said so.

Sarah said so.

Ms. Hudson said so.

Everyone said so.

Even I.

Harry just looked at him. "Alright", she said.

He woke up panting, fingers immediately reaching to his right to turn the lamp on. He cursed when he realized that this was not his bedroom, but Harrite's guest room. After he recalled where the light switch was (right above the headvoard) he turned it.

When he sat up he noticed Sherlock standing in front of his bed, the black hair a ruffled mess and the long coat wrapped around him.

John sighed and let himself fall back, hand probing around to find the light switch blindy, while he was doing his best to just ignore the hallucination.

"John", the fake-Sherlock whispered.

"Bugger off", John cussed through clenched teeth.

"John, I'm alive."

The doctor's fingers paused just above the switch they had just found. He let out a shaking breath.

"No, you're not. You're just an illusion", he replied quietly.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm real." Lies. "The suicide was faked." Desperation. "I've come back." Hope. Crushed. Hope. "I'm ali-"

"Don't say it!", John all but screamed.

Sherlock startled and stumbled backwards as if John had just delivered him a physical blow. John's chest heaved in heavy breaths which he tried forcibly to become calm again.

Grey eyes sought his, deep worry evident in their depths.

"John", Sherlock began to say. That was when the door crashed open and Harry burst into the room – her first step bringing her right through Sherlock's abdomen.

The look of mild surprise on the hallucination's face was the last thing John remembered before everything faded to black.

"I'm fine."

"No, John, you're not. You've just fainted yesterday."

"Just had a bad night."

"I was awoken by the sound of your screaming!"

"Nightmare, I can deal with it, believe me."

"John, you really need professional help."

"I'm already seeing a therapist, Harry."

"…yeah, I know, it's just…"

"It's going to be fine, Harry. I've got to go know, the train is just about to depart."

"Yes… you know, if you ever need something, you can come to me, okay? I'll do whatever I can to help you."

"Thank you, Harry. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

But you can't help me. There is nobody anymore who could help me.


	11. Another Teacup

On days like these, John wondered if life hated him. Probably with passion,because today things just piled up.

The car driver, who had seemed to develop a Red-Green Colour Blindness and nearly drove him over together with the crowd that had wanted to pass over the crosswalk. When he got into the office, Sherlock had sat onto one of the chairs in the waiting room. There had been no other people there – they had not opened at 7 AM already, so luckily no one had noticed the pointed glare he had thrown at him (or the empty chair, whatsoever). He had reappeared again, right after one of his patients left his office, coat flattering behind him, his first word being 'John' and the rest of it lost as the next man (pneumonia) walked right through him. It should probably scare him, how easily he fell back into motion again after his dead friend faded into thin air, but at that point he just could not bring himself to care anymore. Sherlocks visits had gotten more and more frequently as the third anniversary of his death drew nearer, more than occasionally claiming that he was not dead, that he was no hallucination and that he was real, his sentences being the same ever since that one night at Harrys. At first, it had been dreadfully, having to repeat to himself that Sherlock was in fact dead, having to constantly remind himself to the hurting truth, because he might go insane if he did not. However, he had gotten used to it by now.

The day had just gotten worse when Sarah informed him at lunch that one of the elderly patients he was seeing regularly, Miss Pelly, died from apoplexia last evening.

Groggily he reached the flat in the evening. Shrugging his rain-soaked coat from his shoulders, he went directly in the kitchen and set the kettle up. It was just when he reached up to get one of the mugs out of the cupboard. With his left hand. One twitch, sudden flare of muscle movement, clenching, unclenching, and the cup felt from his boneless fingers.

"Got it", a familiar baritone voice said. John looked sidewards to see the Sherlock-hallucination holding the seemingly rescued cup. By now it probably laid scattered on the tiles.

"Um, hello", said the illusion and held the cup out to him. John made a mental note to dodge the area where it was standing now when he did not want to walk into the shards.

"No, thanks", John said and turned around to get another, real cup out of the cupboard. The stains on the table where still there where he had poured tea in a cup that 'Sherlock' had given him.

"Now get out." "John, please, let me expl-" "Out!" He was to tired to deal with this right now. The hallucination looked at him with shocked and hurt grey eyes (dead, blank, blood everywhere, pooling on the pavement, just reflecting the sky). They always looked hurt about his outburst and John repressed the automatic guilt that reared its head, knowing that he should not care about hurting the things his damaged subconscious mind threw at him.

By the time he got the tea tin, the fake Sherlock had already bolted out of the door.

"That was very rude what you did yesterday."

"Ah, was it?"

"Yes, it was."

"I wasn't aware that illusions have feelings."

"Could we please stop to pretend that I am an illusion?"

"Sherlock, your right arm is currently in a very solid brick wall."

"Alright, you've got a point there."

When he came back from work to Bakerstreet, Sherlock was already standing in the living room, examining Johns scattered belongings. He turned around when John came in.

"You've kept my violin." "Of course I did."

"And the skull." "Excellent observation."

"Still you don't like me being here."

John sighed tiredly. Inside his head, a voice was screaming at him, to tell the illusion No, no, stay here, I need you, I'm falling apart, stay here! However, the doctor inside him insisted on Yes, go, leave, stop troubling me and driving me insane.

"Yes, I don't like having you here", he snapped defensively before the doctor lost the war he was about to lose. The fake-Sherlock nodded in a defeated manner and left without another word. The room felt very empty without his imagined presence.


End file.
